


I will always return

by bennyboyTallmadge



Series: platonic!Washette [6]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, Gen, June 1780, don't worry he is not dead, happy end, inspired by the incident where Hamilton was declared dead, platonic!Washette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2018-12-25 03:11:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12026871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bennyboyTallmadge/pseuds/bennyboyTallmadge
Summary: June 1780: Lafayette is declared dead after a British attack on his scouting mission.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the result of me having to find a way to deal with my feelings after reading "Adopted son" by David Clary. The plot was inspired by the incident where Hamilton was mistakenly declared after not returning from a mission and it obviously never happened historically. I tried to fit it into the historical context, which did not work out a hundred percent, for example Laurens was actually a POW in June 1780, but I hope you can overlook these inaccuracies.  
> As mentioned in the tags I wrote the relationship of Lafayette and Washington as a platonic/paternal one because that was how they saw each other in real life. If you however want to imagine them in any other way, feel free to do so, as the story leaves room for interpretation.  
> Please note that I am not a native speaker - I am always open for constructive criticism and would be very happy about your feedback! 
> 
> Have fun!

It was already past nightfall when General Washington laid down his quill to rise from his desk. His back ached in protest after several hours of staying in the same position, hunched over a pile of papers that never seemed to decrease in height. Sheer endless amounts of letters, requests, reports and intelligence, and every single piece of paper required his unshared attention. His aides were already shouldering the biggest part of the daily paperwork, and only the most important and confidential documents even reached the general’s desk. But still Washington had the impression that lately he spent more time as some sort of secretary than actually being the commander of an army. When the words had begun to spin in front of his eyes and had thus forced him to read every sentence at least three times before grasping its meaning, Washington had decided to quit the papers for today.

One hand pressed into the small of his back, where the worst pain was located, he took a few steps toward the window. From here he could see the campfires and tents; white and orange, orderly patches in the dark of the night. If he listened closely, he could even hear the familiar sounds several thousand soldiers caused: the constant humming of their voices, laughter, when some of them had had the chance to purchase some cheap alcohol, and the clattering of thousands of bowls, knifes and firearms. Normally these sounds had a strangely soothing effect on Washington because they meant that the army was still alive and breathing and thus the American cause.

But today this effect did not occur, on the contrary, to glance out into the dark even increased the general’s concerns. Nightfall meant that another day had passed without news of the Marquis de Lafayette reaching camp. Five days had already gone by since the Frenchman had left the headquarters with a small regiment, carrying the orders for a scouting-mission of no greater length than a day and a night. It was a simple assignment: searching for some possible sources of supplies for the army and keeping an eye out for signs of British troop movements before the army would leave the winterquarters at Morristown. No risks to be taken, no tactical advances to be made, no opportunity worth mentioning to earn a reputation – a mission a lower-ranked officer could have easily lead.

No other general beside Lafayette would have asked to command an undertaking of minor importance such as this one and Washington had not been quick on giving him his consent. Why endanger a general and dear friend when a captain or a major would be pleased to receive such an order? But then again, Washington understood his young friend’s motives. Lafayette had returned from France barely a month ago and with the surrender of Charleston still being an open wound in the side of the continental forces, the Frenchman was eager to find ways of raising the men’s spirits – be it only a simple scout. In addition to that, it was a nearly impossible task to try and tame his zealous energy. Washington had had no other choice than – with a sigh – signing the order over to him.

A smile on his lips, Lafayette had left the room, off to tell the men assigned to him that they were about to be commanded by the notorious Marquis himself, and if only for a one-day mission. There had been no need for a lengthier goodbye. One, maybe two days seemed like nothing compared to the whole year of Lafayette’s absence that had just come to its end.

But now one day had turned into five days and still no word from the scout had reached camp. Washington knew that his worries were inappropriate. After all, Lafayette was a general and able to look after himself and his men quite well. Still, the peculiar sensation that a delay of that length, especially for a mission of such briefness, was indeed a reason for concern, remained.

There were many dangers a small unit could be faced with, even if they were only a few miles away from camp. It could get ambushed by regulars or rangers, the men could be taken prisoners and the officers could be traded for British soldiers in American captivity. Especially a man of Lafayette’s fame was in danger of falling into enemy’s hands. There were generals on the British side that were almost obsessed with the thought of capturing the young Frenchman, well aware of his importance to both the army and the commander-in-chief personally. Surely they would not spare a chance of capturing him and using him to force Washington down onto his knees.

The longer he thought about these possibilities the more it appeared foolish to him that he had granted Lafayette the permission to leave camp. His inability to deny the boy a wish had not only started to endanger Lafayette himself but also the entire army. Washington was not sure of the sacrifice he would be willing to make for the Marquis’ life. He only knew that it would be great enough to cause congress to remove him from his post as commander-in-chief afterward.

Captivity however was not the only possible reason for which Lafayette’s unit had not yet returned to camp. How easily could the scout be ambushed, and how easily could even the Marquis get hit by a shot that was destined to end his life. Seemingly endless amounts of zeal and courage did not make a man bulletproof after all, which the battle of Brandywine had been a painful prove for only months after the Frenchman had first arrived in America. Washington could not allow the images that were starting to creep into his mind to take over. Lafayette was a grown man, an able general and aware of the risks he was taking when he was crossing enemy territory. Certainly there was a simple explanation for the delay of his return. Maybe some discoveries that demanded further inspection or a hindrance like injuries and lameness of some horses. Still Washington was not capable to free himself of the feeling that his worries were justified.

Noticing that his thoughts were beginning to take a circular path, he stepped away from the window. Maybe a walk in fresh air bore the ability of easing his concern and clearing his mind. He took his cloak from where he left it hanging over the armrest of a chair and closed the upper buttons of his waistcoat. Even though it was already June, the air could get quite brisk after sundown - the remains of a long and bitter winter.

The men had suffered much over the last months, lacking everything from food to clothes and proper tents. If there would be no victory in battle soon, the already high number of deserters, despite the harsh punishments if discovered, would rise even further. After having locked the office door, Washington proceeded down the hallway. The oil lamps on both sides created a dim light and diffuse shadows in the otherwise dark corridor. He looked forward to being outdoors, under the open sky, where thoughts were able to run much more freely than in a cramped place like this building.

When he passed the aide’s office, Washington noticed an unusual quietness. Most of the time the room and the hallway in front of it were a lively place, always filled with chatter, laughter and the perpetual scratching of quills on paper. Even in the late evening hours there were usually several busy aides to be found here. But today, a heavy silence hung over the hallway. Maybe he was imagining it, probably the aides finished their work early today and went to a nearby tavern, and the sinister feeling overcoming him was just a sign of exhaustion. Nevertheless, Washington felt the need for further investigation.

When he approached the half-open door, he paused in his movements, when he caught sight of two of his aides holding each other in a tight embrace in the otherwise empty room. It was no difficulty for Washington to identify the two men. He instantly recognized the slight frame of Alexander Hamilton, auburn hair creating a contrast to the blue colored coat of the much taller John Laurens, to whose chest Hamilton had pressed his face. Laurens had his head lowered so his face, too, was not visible.

Washington was close to making a retreat and leaving them their privacy. It was by all means not the first time he had witnessed signs of affection between the two men that were not to be considered acts of pure companionship. He had learned to overlook this relationship his two aides maintained for the sake of both their importance to the cause and his own fondness for Hamilton and Laurens.

What caused him to stay was that in the dim light of the room he could perceive that both of them were trembling slightly and in the quietness of the office the sound of occasional, muffled sobs were audible. One of them spoke in a low tone, too indistinct for Washington to make out the words. He was torn between leaving without letting his aides know of his presence and the presentiment that spread inside him.

When they ended the embrace, their voices became clear enough for Washington to understand the words spoken between the two men.

“Someone will have to tell the general. It has to be one of us, he cannot be informed through a mere report.”, he heard Laurens say. The young man’s voice sounded hoarse and his one hand was still gripping Hamilton’s lower arm.

“He will be devastated. Dear god, Laurens, I do not know how to convey such a message.”

If Laurens’ words had bewildered Washington, then Hamilton’s response caused him serious worries. What could possibly cause his aides to weep? What mysterious message where they so shaken by? Not able to withstand the uncertainty anymore, Washington stepped closer and raised his voice.

“May I inquire as to the message you are talking about, gentlemen?”

As if touching the other would all of the sudden burn their skin, Hamilton and Laurens stepped apart and turned toward the general standing in the doorway. Hamilton, flattening his uniform and wiping over his face with one hand, cleared his throat.

“Sir, do you mind accompanying us to a less public place? Your office, if I may propose it?”, he said, gesturing vague in Washington’s direction. Remaining confused, the General bowed his head to show his agreement and signaled his aides to follow him.

On the short walk back to his office, Washington tried hard to suppress the thought of one possible reason for their emotionality. Surely this message was of private nature, surely it had nothing to do with the delay of Lafayette’s return to camp. There were other occasions in which men of Hamilton’s and Laurens’ age could be overcome by their emotions and for certain Washington would be able to calm them.

When they had reached the general’s office, Laurens closed the wooden door behind them and came to stand beside his friend. The room was filled with tension, the air feeling to dense to breathe properly all of the sudden.

Washington noticed that Hamilton was barely able to contain himself, his whole posture tense, eyes straight ahead, his trembling lips pressed together. Laurens touched Hamilton’s hand for a brief moment, his thumb drawing soothing circles on the back of his friend’s hand.

“Well?”, Washington asked, his tone sounding a lot more concerned than he had intended it to. Glancing briefly at Hamilton, Laurens shifted slightly towards his friend, before starting to speak.

“It is Lafayette, sir. His men returned about an hours ago and reported that the division was ambushed by regulars around twelve miles from here, trapped on a narrow path in the woods with only one possible way of escaping. Lafayette ordered his men to make a stand but it was of no use as they were clearly outnumbered. The men saw his horse being shot from underneath him and he went down as well. They intended to rescue him or at least retrieve his-”, Laurens faltered for a moment, “his body, but it appeared most likely that an attempt of that kind would have cost them their lives. One private even claims that he saw the Marquis being hit by a bullet in the upper body. At this moment we have to assume that our dear friend is dead.”

It took a moment for Washington to understand what Laurens had just told him. He felt like the words he perceived had no connection, no meaning, they seemed like some random conglomeration of sounds, like a strange language he was not capable of comprehending. _We have to assume that our dear friend is dead. The Marquis is dead._ Those words simply did not make any sense to him. When his mind finally grasped the meaning of Laurens’ words, Washington felt like the room was suddenly emptied of all breathable air. Had he not reached for the edge of his desk, he perhaps would not have been able to hold himself upright as the walls of his office had started to spin around him.

“I wish to be alone”, Washington said, his voice barely audible, not daring to speak louder in fear of choking on his own words.

“Sir, we-”, Hamilton started, reaching out for him hesitantly with one hand.

“You may leave”, Washington repeated, his voice louder this time, less restrained and also much more trembling. As Hamilton and Laurens still showed no sign of withdrawing from the room but rather just stood in front of his desk, heads bent, Hamilton shaking slightly again, Washington lost the last remains of control he had over his temper.

“Leave!”, he yelled at them, tears starting to burn in his eyes. The moment his two aides winced at his harsh tone and hurried towards the door, Washington already felt guilty for treating them in this manner. They, too, after all had lost one of their closest friends.

Lacking the strength to offer them his apology he reached for the chair closest to him and sunk down onto it. He felt as if a hand of steel held his throat in its tight grip and hindered him from breathing. He loosened his neck cloth, desperately gasping for air, but it was of no use. Slowly starting to panic, Washington leaned forward, elbows resting upon his thighs. It was only now that he noticed his whole body was shaking violently from sobs he was not able to control.

This could no be true. Surely this was a dream, a treacherous nightmare, a trick his mind played him. It would not be the first time his exhaustion would have caused him to experience moments of unsound mind. Deep down he knew however that this was not such a moment. Washington opened the top drawer in his desk and retrieved a bottle of Madeira he remembered having stored there for a special occasion. A special occasion – how ironic, he thought when he uncorked it and poured the alcohol in the glass standing on his desk. It took a great effort for him to be able to lift up the glass with shaking hands and swallow its content. The alcohol failed to show its calming effect it normally had on Washington.

Again and again one image he was not able to banish from his mind appeared before his eyes: Lafayette’s lifeless body laying on the ground, his uniform soaked with blood, face pale, glassy eyes staring up toward the sky, seeing nothing anymore.

This was not right. Lafayette did not deserve anything like this, a meaningless death in a skirmish no historian would ever consider worthy writing about, a fight that would not chance anything in the course of the war. Part of him had always lived with the possibility of losing his friend in battle – after all, Lafayette always was the first to pick up his weapon and charge head-on into the heat of the fight. But Washington had not thought of an unimportant skirmish as the cause of his death. But in the end, what did it matter if it had been a minor fight or the battle deciding the fate of America? Lafayette was dead, gone, never to return.

No matter how hard he tried, Washington could not picture himself without his young friend by his side. He trusted his generals, he cared deeply for his aides, especially for Hamilton and Laurens, he shared some personal matters with them. But no one could ever come close to what Lafayette’s friendship meant to him.

When word had first reached Washington that another young French aristocrat would join the army he had not received this message with delight but rather with annoyance. It had not taken more than a few hours for this annoyance to turn into a certain fondness. The moment Washington had first lain eyes on the tall boy, his frail seeming body trembling with excitement and tension, charming everyone present by talking about his dedication to the American cause in his broken and heavily accented English, he knew that the Marquis was nothing like the haughty, arrogant Frenchmen he was used to. Never once had Lafayette complained about any inconvenience during the harsh winters, never had he been afraid of hard work or spending the nights being quartered with his men if necessary.

At the tender age of nineteen, more of a boy than an adult, overly enthusiastic and eager to get to action at every opportunity given, Lafayette had grown to be a better companion to Washington than any of the other generals ever could. Long nightly conversations, walks around camp and horseback rides whenever time allowed had become habits. It simply felt natural to confide in him the things he had not able to talk to anyone before. Lafayette had seemed to comprehend every struggle and anxiety Washington had been troubled with. He had been the only one the commander trusted enough to be sure that he would never talk behind his back, doubt his ability to lead the army or laugh at the strangest of thoughts that sometimes occupied his mind. For the affection, reassurance and consolation Washington offered the younger man, Lafayette returned unquestioned loyalty, comfort and adoration.

“Sir” and “Your Excellency” had, at least in private, turned into “George”, and “Marquis” into “Lafayette” as Washington had not been able to pronounce one of the Frenchman’s given names without making him giggle. The first time Washington had called him “son”, it had happened without his intention. He had wished Lafayette a good night after a late council and the word had just slipped over his lips without him noticing. It was only when he had turned around wondering about the lack of a response and seen the boy’s eyes filled with tears and his lower lip slightly quivering, that he had become aware of his words. “Thank you”, Lafayette had whispered into the hug that followed and Washington had been glad that the embrace had enabled him to hide the fact that even a man in charge of an army was not able to stop himself from crying in such circumstances.

The remembrance of those moments had made Washington tear up in the year of his friend’s absence already. Now, the pain caused by these fond memories grew unbearable. Not even bothering to wipe the tears off his cheeks anymore, he refilled the glass of wine once more. Was it the second time, the third, the forth? He did not care. What did it matter anyway?

He was used to Lafayette’s temporary absence, hard enough to bear already, but a future without the hope of ever seeing his friend again appeared to be one of darkest Washington could picture. Who would be there to confide in in the hours of despair, when the weight of command grew to heavy to carry it alone? Who would keep his dark thoughts at bay that threatened to take control over his mind and paralyze him in his actions? Who would be the one to stand up for him against the generals even when no one else did? Who would be the one calling him _père_ , father, in private, as if it was the most natural thing to do?

Even though the bottle of wine grew emptier and Washington’s mind hazier, the pain did not diminish. The only thing the alcohol effected was that he began to feel tired and thus his thoughts started playing tricks on him.

All of the sudden he was sure of seeing his Lafayette’s tall, lanky frame in the corner next to the door, the blue and gold of his uniform sparkling, which caused his figure to appear slightly blurred. A peaceful, serene smile lay on his friend’s lips as he was surrounded by the strange light that was arising from his uniform, making his features look even younger and fairer then they already did. His eyes were fixated on a point somewhere above Washington’s head, the window maybe or the framed oil painting beside the latter. As if set into a trance, Washington walked toward him, his steps unsteady and one hand stretched out slightly.

“Lafayette”, he whispered, not daring to speak any louder out of fear to cause the apparition to vanish. The moment he was close enough to be able to touch his friend by reaching out a little further, the vision suddenly changed. The angelic light surrounding Lafayette disappeared and with it the illusion of peace. His face appeared horribly pale, lifeless, like the masks that were done of people shortly after their death to conserve their appearance for their families. A thin trail of blood started running out of the corner of his mouth, dripping onto his uniform. When Washington’s eyes followed the blood’s path he perceived with terror that his friend’s whole uniform was soaking red, the blood running out of a bullet wound right above his heart.

“No, no”, Washington murmured, his shaking hands still reaching out for his friend. He noticed Lafayette’s legs staggering and took a step toward him to catch him in his arms, but the moment his friend’s body began to fall and he expected its weight to pull him down, he simply vanished. Gasping in shock, Washington fell onto his knees, touching the wooden floor where mere seconds ago Lafayette’s feet had touched the ground.

“Don’t leave me, I beg you, Marquis. Don’t leave me”, he pleaded, his voice shaking, cracking. But his words were of no use. Neither did Lafayette reappear nor did the unbearable pain in Washington’s heart lessen. Powerless he sunk back against the wall, his once so mighty frame shaken by soundless sobs.

 

**

 

Washington did not know when he had fallen asleep when he awoke from a stinging pain in his back. Groaning he opened his eyes, noticing with a great amount of confusion that he was situated on the floor of his quarters, right next to the door, his back leaned against the wall in an uncomfortable position. The near empty bottle of Madeira he spotted standing on his desk provided the explanation for the headaches and the faintness he started to feel right after straightening up. For a moment his dazed and tired mind did not remember the reason for these circumstances – falling asleep at a place that was not his bed, consuming large amounts of alcohol - those were none of Washington’s usual habits.

The realization hit him when he pulled himself up onto his legs and nearly caused him to stumble right back down. He remembered Hamilton and Laurens standing in front of him, tears in their eyes, telling him what he dreaded for days. _The Marquis is dead. Lafayette is dead._ It felt too unreal for Washington to be sure if these sentences were actual memories or just the treacherous remains of a cruel nightmare.

He half expected for the door to open and Lafayette to come in, a smile on his lips and energetic as always, wishing him a good morning and, as he often did, handing him a mug of warm coffee.

For a moment Washington thought he had heard a knock on his door, or Lafayette’s voice from the hallway, greeting a person that had crossed his way. Still not fully awake, he took a few strides toward the door to look outside. The only person he saw on the hallway was a private in a muddy uniform, carrying the newest reports and orders to the aides’ office. The expression on his face when he saw the general was a mixture of fear and confusion; he did not seem to dare look at him directly but just hurried past Washington, mumbling something that sounded like “Sorry, Your Excellency”.

With an at least equal amount of confusion Washington closed the door. A look in the small mirror hanging on the wall next to his desk showed him the reason for the private’s reaction. He did indeed look frightening with red rimmed eyes, skin as pale as a ghost’s and his hair loosened out of his braid and pointing in every imaginable direction.

If he were to spent the day on his own, Washington would not have cared about his appearance. What did it matter what he looked like, when his best friend, his son, was dead, killed by a British musket, in a skirmish no one would ever consider worth mentioning? He could already feel the tears start to burn in his eyes again but this time he fought back the lump in his throat and struggled to regain control over his sentiments.

His duties as the commander-in-chief would not cease to exist because of personal grief. There was a council of war set for today he was expected to attend and the pile of paper on his desk seemed to increase in height from merely looking at it. What a fool he had been to wish for the meeting with the officers to take place early in the morning. He did not look presentable at all and he was sure every person entering his office would notice the obvious smell of alcohol. To at least restore his outer appearance to an acceptable level, Washington changed his undershirt and put on the rest of his uniform.

After braiding his hair and splashing some cold water onto his face, he decided that this was the best the circumstances allowed him to look like. Flattening his coat, the general stepped out of his office and turned right in order to get to the room where he held his councils of war with his officers.

Upon his arrival, almost every person that was expected to attend the council today was already present. Washington could hear the tangle of their voices before even stepping through the door. When he entered the room, the mumbling ceased abruptly. He was used to drawing attention on himself and the feeling of every single eye in the room resting on him was not an unfamiliar one, but still there was a great amount of tension he could immediately perceive.

An uneasy silence hung in the air which was even increased by the sound of somebody clearing his throat. Washington took note of Hamilton, who was seated at a desk in the corner of the room, equipped with paper and a quill to take protocol of the council, avoiding to look straight at him. Still, he could not miss that the area around the young man’s eyes appeared swollen and that he seemed a lot less energetic and vivacious than usual.

“Good morning, gentlemen”, Washington greeted his officers and proceeded to his place on the head of the table. He tried his best to ignore the men’s cautious glances between themselves and him. Surely they had been debating whether to address the matter of Lafayette’s death in his presence and now they were unsure of how to conduct themselves in this council. Deciding that he would most likely not be able to bear a conversation on that topic today, Washington opened the discussion about the army’s planned departure from Morristown without further introductions or mentions of the ill-fated scout mission. The officers appeared slightly startled by that but after a short silence General Greene offered his advices concerning a possible route for troop movements which caused the others to join the debates as well.

After what felt like hours of weighing several options against each other Washington could sense the exhaustion taking over his mind. He had not been able to entirely focus on the council anyway, owing to the remains of alcohol still clouding his thoughts and the constant effort of not glancing at the spot at the table that used to be occupied by Lafayette. In the few weeks of his presence after his return to America Washington had already gotten used to the sight of the tall Frenchman standing next to him at the conference table, his head slightly tilted to be able to look upon the maps splayed out before him, hands clasped behind his back whenever he was not supporting his words by gesticulating extensively, especially when he lacked the proper English term for what he was trying to suggest.

Thinking about it, Washington was almost able to imagine seeing Lafayette in the corner of his eye, trembling with excitement about the possibility of a command as he especially had done shortly after his first arrival, energetic, talkative, breathing, alive. On any other day Washington would have been able to pull himself together and put such sentimentality aside. But today, with an impaired mind and the grief still being an open wound, he could not endure attending this council any longer. Too great was his fear that the last of his restrain would tear and that his officers would bear witness of how gravely the Marquis’ loss affected him. A grieving, intoxicated and weak general was nothing he could allow his men to see. Too quickly would the voices rise, whispering of him being unfit for duty, crafting plans of replacing him as commander-in-chief.

“Thank you for your attendance and your contributions. This council will be resumed tomorrow morning. If you will excuse me, gentlemen”, Washington said, forcing his voice to sound steady and unshaken. Without wasting any time, he rose from his chair and headed toward the door.

“Sir, are you quite alright?”, he heard Sullivan ask, sounding rather puzzled at the commander’s sudden decision of putting an end to today’s council.

“Yes, thank you, there is no need for your concern. I merely think it best to grant these fatiguing debates a rest until the next day and retire to our quarters”, Washington answered, already standing in the open door and only slightly turning his head in his officer’s direction. He knew that he did not sound nearly as convincing as he had intended to and was thus relieved when he had finally left the room.

Taking a few deep draws of breath he managed to reach his quarters without losing his composure in front of the servants and privates passing him on the hallway. Nobody could see the state he really was in. What would the men think of him, their general, the man they where supposed to look up to, to trust and rely on, if they saw him in this moment of weakness, at the brink of tears, his impressive, broad frame diminished, almost frail? He could not afford losing his men’s loyalty and trust by allowing them to know of his feebleness. The only person in this army whom he had granted insight into his innermost thoughts and sensations was gone. His dear Lafayette, the only one he had been sure of that would not have been repelled or disappointed by learning of Washington’s momentary weakness, one of the few who had never doubted his ability to command, the only one he had allowed to offer him comfort in the hours of the night where the voices of doubt and insecurity grew to loud to let him sleep any longer. Gone. It still seemed too unreal for Washington to entirely comprehend this thought.

He should have felt relieved after reaching his quarters and shutting the door behind himself but the sensation dominating his mind was loneliness. Although his and Lafayette’s quarters were separated by a wall, Washington could feel his absence. Not that this was an unfamiliar occurrence - after all, the Frenchman had spent nearly a year in his home country not long ago. Knowing, however, that the silence was caused by the circumstance that he was never to return made it nearly unbearable.

What would he have given to hear the familiar noises next door again? Snippets of discussions in rapid French, whenever Laurens or some members of the allied troops were visiting his quarters, laughter, whenever Hamilton could allow himself a break from his work, or even a muffled curse when Lafayette once again knocked over a jar of ink. The thought nearly made Washington smile but this moment only lasted for a mere second. Too quickly came the realization that he was not to hear these sound ever again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Part II**

The first thing Lafayette noticed when he regained consciousness was a heavy weight pressing him down. The second was that he could neither move nor breath properly. Vision still dazed and clouded by black spots, he lifted his head and became aware of the reason for his rather unfortunate state: The lifeless body of his horse lay on top of him and pinned him to the ground from his chest downward. Lafayette let his head sink back onto the dirt and clenched his teeth when he felt the jolts of pain shooting through his limbs with every movement.

Slowly he began to remember the events that had led to these circumstances. An ambush of British regulars, his own scout heavily outnumbered. His desperate attempts of forming a line of defense, seeing his men go down one by one. His horse’s shrill and angry scream when a bullet hit it into the chest and the groan when it went down, burying its rider underneath its heavy body. A soldier yelling “The Marquis was hit!” and his own unheard attempt of making his men aware of the fact that he was alive and required assistance to free himself from underneath his horse. His screams remaining unnoticed in the chaos of smoke and gunfire. His horse writhing in agony, fighting desperately to get back onto its legs but thus only causing its still trapped rider greater pain. Finally the short but excruciating pain of the stirrup hitting his temple and granting him merciful unconsciousness.

When Lafayette raised his hand to touch the part of his head where he remembered the metal striking him, he winced from the pain that even the slightest brush of his fingers caused. Dried blood remained on his palm when he let his hand slide down his face. At least the wound must have stopped to bleed further, then.

Just now his dazed mind perceived that there had been no gunshots to be heard since his awakening, neither had he heard voices, screams or any other sound indicating that the skirmish was still continuing. With his confusion growing further, Lafayette raised his head once again to catch a sight of his surroundings. Where were his men? Had they all been killed in the fight? Or had they left, assuming he was dead? And even more important, where was the enemy?

There was no man to be seen, neither American nor redcoat. Several corpses lay near him, all of them wearing the blue of the continental army. The only explanation for this was that the British had taken their own dead with them and left the enemy’s fallen men behind. Had he really been so lucky for them to believe him dead as well? And even if they did, would the body of the famous Marquis not have been a trophy for the redcoats?

Lafayette did not know the answers for the questions troubling his mind. He only knew that he was alive, that he was injured and currently trapped underneath his dead horse and that all troops, enemy and friend, were gone. Judging from the light falling through the treetops it had to be evening already. If the surviving ones of his men still had horses they would make it to camp until nightfall. He however did not have a mount and in addition to that he was injured.

Though unable to observe the damage in those parts of his body he was still incapable of moving, Lafayette knew that he would have to spend the night in the wilderness. He would never be able to walk twelve miles in the state he was in before the sun would set and in addition to that it was a foolish undertaking to try and reach camp at night when there was the possibility of British troops still being around.

First however he had to find a way of freeing himself from the weight of the animal on top of him. Every single breath sent a jolt of pain through his chest even though he was already trying to breath a shallow as possible. The horse had most likely caused some of his ribs to break in its desperate attempts to get onto its feet. Lafayette figured that he urgently needed to liberate his lower body as well, as some parts of his legs had started to feel strangely numb.

Managing to retrieve his saber from his belt, he cut through the leather strains holding his horse’s harness in place. This way he could at least remove the saddle that was adding pressure to his lower body. This rather small effort already made his head grow dizzy again. Breathing heavily he let his upper body sink back to the ground.

After granting himself a break of a few minutes time, he clenched his teeth and resumed his efforts. His best chance seemed to be to try and push himself backwards while at the same time lifting the horses body with his legs as far as possible. The second part proved to be hopeless. There was no way he would be able to move an estimated weight of one thousand pounds with his legs alone. Consequently only the option of dragging his lower body out from underneath the horse remained.

The minutes that followed felt to Lafayette like hours. Somehow he finally succeeded in freeing himself. He could only hope that the screams of pain he had not been able to withhold had not attracted the attention of any British soldier nearby. It took another several minutes for his breath to calm and for the feeling of being on the verge of unconsciousness to fade. One hand pressed to his side where he assumed the location of the fracture in his ribs, Lafayette sat up, groaning at the pain that immediately increased in intensity. Carefully, he moved his legs in order to determine whether they were affected by any serious injury. They felt incredibly sore and especially his right knee pained him, but this was most likely caused by the immense pressure of his horse’s weight upon him. In two days’ time he would be likely to find his whole lower body covered in bruises, but at least he did not get the impression of having broken a bone in his legs. Moving his feet to drive away the feeling of numbness, he examined the rest of his body. He already was aware of the injury in his ribs and the throbbing wound on his temple but apart from these he appeared to be unharmed.

 _You are one lucky bastard,_ he remembered his dear friend Laurens saying some time ago and indeed this seemed to prove true. He escaped from a sanguinary skirmish with minor injuries and even though he had been left behind by his own men, the enemy had not made the effort of searching for his body and thus unknowingly spared his life.

In the meantime, the sun had already begun to set on the horizon. To set out for camp would now be of no use, as he would never be able to reach it before the dark and with the pain still clouding his mind, orientation would prove quite difficult during the nighttime. Lafayette was left with no other option than to wait for the dawn of he next morning to come. Luckily, a look into the bag that had been stored behind his saddle showed him that he was at least equipped with water and enough food to last for the night and the day to follow.

Taking his saber and his musket with him, Lafayette limped toward the trunk of a broad tree, that would hopefully protect him from the eyes of anybody traveling along the road. Awkwardly he rested himself on top of his cloak, upper body leaning against the tree.

He knew that fighting off the sleep his body desperately required would prove to be a hard task and that he would need all strength he could somehow gather for his way back to camp tomorrow.

He also knew, however, that falling asleep in the wilderness without the protection of guards or a shelter could mean his death sentence. If British soldiers were to pass by and find an injured and sleep-drunk Marquis de Lafayette they surely would show no mercy.

The only possibilities left were either being shot in this very place or being taken as a prisoner. Lafayette had to confess to himself that the first option still appeared to be the better one. He could not bear the thought of the continental army making great sacrifices in order to safe his life, when he had fallen into the enemy’s hands due to his own recklessness and lack of self control. The logical consequence was that he had to keep himself awake at all cost and accept that it would take longer for him to reach camp. In a tired state his body would not nearly be as functional as if rested.

By the time Lafayette had drunken some water and eaten a piece of the stale bread he had with him, the sun had completely set. It felt strange to be all alone in the woods at dark. Lafayette was used to spending the night in the wilderness when he traveled with his troops, with several men standing guard, and with campfires holding the darkness at bay, but never during his time in the continental forces had he been required to enduring a night on his own.

The longer he stared at the dark silhouettes of trees surrounding him, the more aware he became of the fact that he would not stand a chance if the enemy would find him here, injured, week and alone. At least he would not go down without a fight, he comforted himself, gripping the handle of his saber and letting his head sink back against the rough bark of the tree.

His men, if any of them had survived the skirmish – which he hoped for with all his heart – must have reached camp by now. Surely they would report to the officers about the unfortunate circumstances that had forced them to leave him behind. Probably it would be decided to send a unit to his rescue. Another option he did rather try not to think about.

Assuming his men had fled the battlefield believing him to be dead, there would be nobody to come and search for him. This part alone would not create to big of a problem – after all, he would be able to reach camp on his own the following day, provided he would not encounter any hostile troops on his way back.

What really troubled his mind about his men assuming his death, was the reaction this false information may cause back at the headquarters. If it was revealed to the men that even a simple scout mission had not been able to fulfill its assignment and most of the unit’s members had died this close to camp, fear and insecurity would increase. Many of the enlisted would not be willing to risk their lives for a cause in which even undertakings of minor importance were destined to fail.

When he had volunteered for commanding the scout, Lafayette had intended to accomplish the exact opposite. He had wanted to raise the men’s spirits by occupying them with a simple task that they were able to complete without facing any greater obstacles and thus giving them the impression that, despite the surrender of Charleston, there was no reason to give up hope. The fact that Lafayette was famous and well liked throughout the ranks even worsened the consequences. If the men believed him, the one who always displayed a positive attitude, who was always the last to approve of surrendering, to be dead, a grave amount of their confidence and optimism would vanish. He could already see the numbers of deserters rise once again. It was of the utmost importance that he returned as quickly as anyhow possible to present himself to the men, to show them that endurance and faith would eventually prove to be the key to victory.

Not only the men, however, would be affected by his alleged death. He did not want to picture the reaction of his close friends that were currently stationed at the headquarters as well. Dear Hamilton and Laurens, the two aides who had grown to be his best friends during his first stay in America, would surely be deeply shaken by the message that he had fallen in combat. He imagined himself in their place, being informed about Hamilton’s or Laurens’ death – a trail of thought he did not want to continue any further.

And then, of course, Washington. The great commander-in-chief of the continental army, whom he had the honor of calling his friend. More than that – a father, a man whom he admired and loved deeply and whom he trusted with his very life. The first person to ever give him the sense of being needed, important, loved. What would he give to spare Washington the pain of assuming him to be dead? He knew that the affections he held for the general were returned, even though in a much more subtle way than he himself displayed his emotions. The amount of time Washington chose to spend with him, the worry he expressed whenever Lafayette was getting into the way of danger, and gestures, like embraces and smiles that he granted no one else, were proof enough for Lafayette.

He knew how Washington had secretly disapproved of him leaving for France. Of course the general had had been aware that Lafayette, at least at this point of the war, was of greater use in his home country, pleading at the court for support of the American cause. Still, the Marquis had noticed that, at least personally, Washington would have been glad to send another man to France in his place.

 _You will be dearly missed,_ he had told Lafayette upon his departure, tears in his eyes, embracing him.

 _I will return. I always will,_ he had responded, barely able to bear the sight of his dear general saddened by his leaving. He could but imagine the state Washington would be in, once it was reported to him that his friend had, mere weeks after his return, become a victim of British fire. The thought nearly made Lafayette’s own eyes fill with tears until he reminded himself that everything he was currently troubling his mind with was pure speculation.

Initially, he had not even wanted to ponder about the possibility of his men declaring him dead. Now, however, he found himself worrying about the eventual effects of this wrong assumption already. Strange, how quickly the darkness of his surroundings had invaded his thoughts. In the tired and still quite dazed state he was in, he simply did not seem able to maintain the positive mindset that he usually called his own. In addition to this, the fight to force his eyes to stay open grew harder with each minute that passed.

Soon, Lafayette felt himself starting to slip into a light sleep against his better will. A few times the doze lasted only for mere seconds and his head jerked up immediately after sinking down toward his chest. Pinching his injured side in order to make the pain keep him awake, Lafayette tried to fight the urge to simply close his eyes. Those efforts however were not of use for very long. In the early morning hours he drifted off into a restless sleep.

 

**

Lafayette was not sure of the reason for his awakening. Either it had been the birds, loudly chirping their morning melodies, the sun warming his face, or the throbbing sensation of pain in his side – or probably a combination of all three. It took a moment for him to realize that the fact that he had awoken meant that he had fallen asleep at some point last night. He cursed his foolishness but was at the same time grateful for fortune being on his side once again.

He gathered his belongings that were splayed around him. His rifle and saber, the remains of bread and water and the cloak he had rested on were all he would take with him. He had to use the tree for support in order to stand up and clenched his teeth when the sharp pain caused by his fractured ribs increased with the effort. Finally he stood upright, his legs shaking slightly, and his temple throbbing angrily, but he stood.

In order to reach camp he would have to go north, approximately four miles toward the edge of the woods, crossing an open field and afterward another seven miles through the woods. If he walked without resting, he could reach camp in approximately six hours. Under normal circumstances, that was. Adding the time he would lose owing to his injury and the detour he would be forced to make in order to avoid the main road where British soldiers were now likely to pass, he assumed that he would not be able to make it back until the early evening.

Taking a final look back to where the skirmish had taken place and the bodies of his men still lay, Lafayette started walking. He deeply regretted that he could not do anything for them but leaving them behind laying in the dirt, but retrieving their corpses was a matter that could be addressed later. Now he had to focus on himself and the challenge that that lay ahead of him.

The first three miles passed quickly, the ground even and the pain manageable. He was limping slightly because of the soreness in his knee, but he was able to adjust to it. As soon as he had reached the edge of the woods, however, his legs seemed to grow heavier with each step. Allowing himself a break, Lafayette leaned against a tree and took a sip out of his bottle of water. A look at where the sun was standing showed to his surprise that he was making progress not nearly as fast as he had assumed. Either he had not been aware of walking much slower than usually or had unknowingly taken a longer route than necessary.

Anyway, speculations of that kind were of no use at the moment. Lafayette hissed at the pain in his side that multiplied when he pushed himself away from the tree he had been leaning against.

Now the riskiest part of his journey was to come. The field he had to cross provided no protection from the eyes of any person passing on the nearby road. If any redcoats were by chance patrolling there, he was as good as dead. The only option he had was to cross the field as quickly as possible.

Taking a deep breath and hoping that fate would remain on his side, he emerged from the tree line and started to hasten through the knee-high grass. His head as well as his side did not approve of the rapid movements but Lafayette did not have the time to pay the pain any mind. Looking around several times for patches of red appearing in the distance he attempted to further increase the speed with which he was moving.

He felt like he was granted an insight into what being a hunted animal felt like. How ridiculous this whole situation was, he thought; him, a general, all alone in the wilderness, chased by an enemy who’s presence he was not even sure of.

When he reached the edge of the wood on the other side of the field and had neither been pierced by a bullet nor surrounded by British soldiers he felt relief streaming through his tired limbs. Panting harshly he slowed down and leaned forwards, hands resting on his thighs. Black spots danced in front of his eyes and he felt more like standing on a ship on the high sea rather than on steady soil. _One step after another,_ he told himself, _one step after another_. He just had to keep walking. That had never seemed this hard of a task as it did this very moment.

 

By the time Lafayette was finally able to make out the first row of tents in the distance the sun was already setting on the horizon. Regardless of the pain in his chest and the fact that his legs had nearly given way two times in the past hour, he could swear that the sight of the patches of white in the forest was the most beautiful one he had ever been granted.

A smile on his lips he paused for a moment to take in the view. He had been close to giving in to his exhaustion not long ago but the promise of having to walk only for a few minutes more activated the last bit of energy his body could provide. All of the sudden his legs seemed to grow lighter again and despite the dizziness returning and the black clouds darkening his vision, Lafayette eventually managed to reach the tents.

The first man he encountered looked upon him with a mixture of confusion and disbelief. The soldier quickly stepped aside, when he became aware of himself staring at the Marquis with his mouth gaping open, and bowed slightly.

“Sir”, he greeted Lafayette who offered a nod in return. The further he walked through the rows of tents, the louder the whispers following him grew.

_It_ _it_ _Lafayette. The Marquis is back. Lafayette is alive._

The sound of the men saying his name, joy audible in their voices, seemed to Lafayette’s ears like heavenly music after a whole day of his own ragged breath and the cracking of wood being the only noise he had heard. The smile on his face was tired but genuine nevertheless.

Soon, he approached the massive redbrick house that served as the headquarters of General Washington and his staff. The area around the building was were the officer’s tents were situated. There he encountered Major Tallmadge, Washington’s head of intelligence, who saluted him with a broad grin.

“Good to see you back in one piece, sir”, he said in a slightly joking manner, making Lafayette chuckle.

“Thank you, major, I am indeed glad to be back”, he replied, smiling at the young man.

He had taken an instant liking in Tallmadge when he had first met him two years ago. He was cunning and brave, and did his duty with a dedication some higher-ranked men lacked. Also, he seemed to be in a constant quarrel with Washington, being one of the few men daring to speak up against the general, but Lafayette knew that Washington held him in his highest esteem nevertheless or maybe exactly for that very reason.

Walking on, he heard somebody calling him by his name. Lafayette turned around, unable to make out from where the call had come. He was just about to give up on searching for the person who had been its source, when a hand came to rest on his shoulder.

“It really is you, _mon ami_ ”, an oh too familiar voice said and Lafayette was given just enough time to spin around before he was pulled into a tight embrace.

“Hamilton”, he affectionately said the name of his much shorter friend when he returned the hug.

“Even though I am very happy to receive your embrace, my ribs are not”, he added, hissing through his teeth when Hamilton’s arms gripped him even harder. Immediately his friend took a step back and raised his hands to hold Lafayette at arm’s length. Hamilton’s eyes were glistening with tears, as Lafayette noticed, deeply moved by the emotional welcome.

“Are you quite alright? Have you suffered an injury?”, Hamilton asked, his voice thick with concern since he had in the meantime noticed the wound on Lafayette’s temple and the effort it took the Frenchman to stand upright.

“None that must cause you great concern. I was struck by my horse’s stirrup and I fear to have broken some ribs, but I shall be recovered in a few week’s time.”, he replied. Hamilton opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted by Laurens who, meanwhile, had also learned of Lafayette’s return.

“See? I told you, there I no way that this bastard is dead”, he exclaimed, slightly pushing Hamilton, before he embraced Lafayette as well. Luckily, Laurens’ hug was not quite as fierce as Hamilton’s and thus Lafayette only winced slightly when pressure was added to his side. Despite his friend’s joyful reactions he was still able to perceive how deeply touched they were by his return. Although he believed to already know the answer, he still felt the need to ask a question that was deeply troubling him.

“Tell me, my friends, what is the cause of all this? I’m delighted of your joy upon my return but you never before received me this effusively.”

“I have to confess that we believed you dead, my dear friend. Your men reported they had seen you get hit by a bullet and go down with your horse”, Hamilton said and thus confirmed Lafayette’s suspicion.

“Dead? _Mon dieu, non_!”, Lafayette exclaimed, falling into his mother tongue against his better will, upon realizing that what he dreaded had in fact turned out to be true.

“My horse, the poor creature, was the only one to suffer death by a British musket. I was trapped underneath it and lost consciousness. My injuries made it necessary for me to wait for night to fall before I could cross the enemy’s lines. Without a mount the way back to camp can be a quite fatiguing one. So my men have returned, yes?”, he asked. He felt the need to explain the circumstances of his return but also became displeased with how easily he had been proclaimed dead by his own men.

“Seven of them returned yesterday in the late evening hours, claiming that you had fallen”, Hamilton said.

“Nobody should be that quickly with declaring a man dead”, Lafayette said and his voice grew louder against his will.

“In particular not you, it appears”, Laurens said, his smile soothing Lafayette’s uprising anger.

“You know there is nothing that could kill me this easily, _mon ami_ ”, he said, in a half serious, half joking way.

“You hear that, Laurens? If he is talking in this manner, it is Lafayette for sure!”

Both Laurens and Lafayette laughed at Hamilton’s teasing words.

Lafayette, however, became serious again rapidly.

“The General, was he noticed already?”, he asked, his tone implying that the matter was of an urgent nature.

“We had to tell him of our assumption and of your men’s reports, yes. He was already anxious for you to return since the third day you were gone.”, Laurens answered.

“He is utterly devastated”, Hamilton added, “When we first told him about your mistakenly tragical fate yesterday I thought he might faint before he yelled at us to leave him alone. I only saw him briefly today in the council where he left earlier, but he was pale as a sheet and appeared to have drunken quite an amount of alcohol the night before.”

Lafayette felt something inside him shatter at Hamilton’s words. His chest felt too tight all of the sudden as he pictured Washington the way his friend had just described him.

“Where is he?”, he demanded to know, “I need to see him.”

“He spoke of retiring to his quarters when leaving the council this noon.”, Hamilton said.

Lafayette nodded in acknowledgment and placed his hands on his friend’s shoulders.

“I am glad to be back, _mes amis_. We shall see each other in the morning, when I am rested and my head is no longer paining me”, he said, regarding Hamilton and Laurens with a warm smile.

Then, he proceeded on his way toward the headquarters. There was a task far more important than resting or having his wounds tended to: sparing Washington the pain of believing him to be dead a minute longer.

Lafayette felt a peculiar sensation of nervousness when he ascended he stairs and entered the building. He had seen the general exhausted, angry, in doubt and in mania. But he was not prepared for grief, especially as he himself had been the reason for it. Faster than Lafayette could have prepared himself for the coming, he stood before Washington’s quarters. Taking a deep breath, Lafayette raised his hand to knock at the wooden door.

“I wished not to be disturbed!”, he heard the general’s voice from within the room. It sounded different from how Lafayette remembered it, weaker and somewhat harsher at the same time. Lafayette knew that Hamilton’s observations about the general’s state had been correct before he had even seen Washington. He was torn between feeling anger toward his men that had pronounced him dead without knowing of his remain for certain, and consternation over how deep the message of his supposed death had affected the general.

Nevertheless, he could not help the small smile starting to curl his lips when he thought of the joy he would be received with soon. Ignoring Washington’s words, Lafayette proceeded to open the door and stepped inside. The general was standing with his back toward him, his view focused on something outside his window. His broad frame appeared strangely small, shoulders sunken forward, and this impression was only increased by the circumstance that he had taken off his blue coat. He did not even turn around to lay eyes on who ever had just entered his quarters without permission.

“Did I not express myself clearly? I do not wish company”, he said, the effort of not yelling these words but saying them in a near to normal tone, clearly audible in his voice. Lafayette, now having entered the room, closed the door behind himself and took a step toward Washington, his hands clasped behind his back in an attempt to keep them from shaking.

“Not even that of a dear friend?”, he asked, not able to suppress a small smile at the sight of Washington jumping at the sound of his voice. Slowly, the general turned around as if he were not sure if he had heard correctly or if his mind was playing tricks on him. The expression on his face when he finally recognized the young man standing on the other side of the room, was one that Lafayette was unlikely to ever forget. A mixture of disbelief, shock, sorrow and joy, so openly readable upon his features that it made Lafayette’s eyes sting with tears.

“Lafayette”

Washington’s voice was but a whisper when he came closer, steps hesitant, as if Lafayette were to vanish if he approached him too rapidly.

“Is it - are you...real?”, he asked, so quietly and shaky that Lafayette was not sure if he had understood him correctly. Any other person he would have teased or laughed at for such an odd question, but he knew how his episodes of melancholia sometimes affected the general. Hence he nodded, taking a step toward Washington.

“As real as I will ever be”, he softly said and witnessed how some barrier inside his friend seemed to burst. Washington crossed the remaining distance between them in a few strides and pulled Lafayette into an embrace that, had his ribs not already been injured, would have had the force to do so. Despite the sharp pain shooting through his side, Lafayette returned the hug in a similar manner.

He felt Washington’s hand clutching the back of his neck, fingers entangled in his hair that had come loose of his braid. Exhaling shakily, the general rested his head on Lafayette’s shoulder; a gesture that definitively put an end to the Marquis’ attempts of holding back tears. Just now he noticed that Washington was trembling, shaken by silent sobs. Not able to think of a better way to sooth him, Lafayette maintained the embrace, stroking his back in a circular movement.

“I thought I had lost you”, he eventually heard Washington say, his voice damped by the fabric of Lafayette’s uniform. He remained silent for a moment while he contemplated about an appropriate answer.

“I promised once that I would always return, do you remember? I promise it again”, he said, with a great effort to keep his voice steady and calm. His words were sincere – he had sworn to himself long ago that he would do anything in his power to stay at Washington’s side as long as he would allow him to.

“My dear boy”, Washington murmured, “Do not leave me like this ever again, I beg you”

Had Lafayette not already given in to his tears, this would have been the moment to do so. He had expected their reunion to to be emotional but he had not been prepared for how distraught Washington really appeared to be.

It was when the general shifted slightly and thus unknowingly applied an immense amount of pressure to Lafayette’s injured side, that the pain and exhaustion grew to great for him to handle. Against his will, he groaned quietly, feeling his knees starting to buckle. As if he was trying to look through a heavy fog, he perceived how Washington grabbed him by his shoulders, his face a grimace of worry. He heard him saying his name but his voice sounded impossibly far away.

All of the sudden, staying awake seemed very challenging to Lafayette. The black spots in his vision spread further and he could hear the streams of blood pulsating in his head. Washington more carried him to his bed than he himself walked there. Carefully, the general sat him down, still holding on to his shoulders to ensure that he would not loose consciousness and fall over.

“Stay there”, Washington said in a quiet voice, when he got up and reached for the bowl of water placed underneath his mirror. Lafayette had to hold on to the bedsheets in order stay upright as he had the sensation that the walls were slowly revolving around him. He flinched in pain when Washington leaned over him and began to remove the dried blood from where it still remained on his temple with a wet cloth.

“Shh”, the general tried to sooth him, as he proceeded even more carefully, tenderly cupping the uninjured side of Lafayette’s face. Strange, his dazed mind wondered, how these hands, used to holding swords and rifles, could at the same time touch him so delicately. After a few minutes, Lafayette’s fatigue overpowered him.

He did not know whether he said it aloud that he was as tired as never before, but Washington reacted nevertheless. Without speaking a word, the general lowered his half-asleep young friend onto his bed, taking off his boots and covering him with a blanket. Lafayette attempted to raise his upper body and speak, but Washington hushed him.

“It is alright, son. Sleep now”, he said and Lafayette sunk down into the comfort of the soft mattress again. There was no need for further questions now. Every conversation on how he had sustained his injuries or how he had fought his way back to camp could be held the following day. Finally giving in to his exhaustion, Lafayette drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would have never had the heart to let out dear frenchfry die.  
> Btw, I do have a legitimate source for Washington treating Lafayette the way he does in this story: "Washington loved the young man so much that he pampered him." - David Clary, Adopted son
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the second part, if yes, please let me know - feedback is always appreciated. :)
> 
> Say hello on Tumblr: http://bennyboy-tallmadge.tumblr.com/


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